


Up and Up

by gonfalonier



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Power Dynamics, complicated adult emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gesture well-meant, poorly received.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up and Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vorpal_platypus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorpal_platypus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [General Dynamics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950483) by [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose). 



> This is in response to a prompt by tumblr user eightdollarwine: Hamilton/Washington - Things you said when you thought I was asleep. This one hurts, sorry, and it's gross.

The room phone rings at 2:28, a call from the front desk to make sure everything’s all right. Alex doesn’t even lift his forehead off the pillow to answer it. “It’s great,” he says. A delirious giggle bubbles up in his throat. “We’re just -- fucking really hard.” Behind him he hears George grumble some blasphemy, and then the phone is plucked out of his hand and slammed back into the receiver. George slaps him on the ass, right on the meat of it, and says, “Shut up.” Alex pushes back, grinds his ass against the base of George’s dick, pushes the pillow up against the headboard and laughs: “Make me, old man.”

Twenty minutes later, Alex’s mouth is stuffed full of dick -- “Ass-to-mouth, man, that’s fucking brutal, where’d you even learn that?” -- and George’s hand is locked in his hair. Some guys, they talk dirty, call Alex names that make him laugh or roll his eyes, but George is from that old school, all decorum and discretion, so when he comes close to getting his nut he goes quiet and serious. Determined. He lifts his hips up and fucks deep so Alex can snake his tongue out against those nice, fat balls, but then he pulls back. “Shit. Shit, you make me --” Alex doesn’t even feel smug about it. He’s choking on come, it’s making his throat burn, and all he wants to do is tap out a fucking gallon of it from the root. George always stays hard after he’s done, at least for Alex, so they just stay where they are: Alex on his knees on the plush suite carpet; George propped up on one elbow, panting, palming his own sweaty chest. “Goddamn, son.”

Alex blinks a couple of times and then lets his eyes rest closed. George reaches down to give his shoulder a squeeze. He says, “Time to let it go.” Alex swallows as he pulls away, and then he looks up and spits out, “Why? This place doesn’t charge by the hour.” 

George gives him a weary look. “I’ll shower first and then it’s all yours.”

“You’re just mad I wore your old ass out so quick.” Alex laughs when, on cue, George stands and his knees pop. George cuffs him lightly upside the head and then makes for the bathroom. Alex stays on the floor until he’s alone. His own knees protest when he pushes himself up. He winces. Christ, that man makes everything hurt. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He cracks open the square bottle of water -- not complimentary -- and gulps it down in swigs so hard they bend the plastic. He closes the heavy curtains to block out the afternoon sun.

He doesn’t smooth down the comforter before he stretches out on top of it. The pillows are a wreck. He piles two up under his head and when he turns on his side his cheek sticks in a mess of his own spit. He turns the pillow over and grumbles, rolls onto his back again, slings his arm up to cover his eyes. He’s finally starting to calm down. He dozes only to hitch awake at every ambient noise: a door opens and closes down the hall; George’s phone buzzes on the desk, the quick trill of a text; in the bathroom the shower shuts off. Alex registers when the door opens and George walks out. The swish of fabric tells him he’s dressed again. Damn.

He doesn’t stir while George moves about the room. Maybe George will come to him. Maybe they’ll fuck again. The corner of Alex’s lips quirks. Maybe George will crawl up on the bed, pin his arms over his head and rock their bodies together until both their suits are ruined. Or maybe he’ll roll Alex over on top and Alex can bounce til he breaks. His fingers twitch to push down against George’s chest. Lord, he’d pop wood just watching whatever that man does at the gym.

The room is still. Alex feels like he’s being scrutinized. He doesn’t move. “Hm,” George says. Alex hears him rustle around, and then there’s a steady series of taps and clicks. Dude’s kept the phone keyboard sound on. He probably doesn’t know how to turn it off. It’s all Alex can do not to snicker.

One long buzz from the phone, then another, and George mutters, “Not now. Not right now,” but he answers anyway. “Palmer. I wasn’t expecting you to follow up so soon. Not like you to be early,” a forced chuckle, “unless it’s open bar. You got my email?” There’s a pause. Alex slows his breathing and strains to listen. George says, “Mmhm. Uh huh. That’s all -- That isn’t important. Everyone --” He lowers his voice. “Everyone knows he’s a pain in the ass. I know it, you know it; you’ve seen how he works, that’s why you want him.” Another break. There are like six Palmers he could be talking to. “He’s a good -- Yes. That’s what I’m saying.” Alex hears him get up and move to a far corner of the suite. The AC kicks on but Alex can still hear him over the noise. “You want my take on Hamilton? He’s a good dog. You know what I mean? Yeah, like a pit bull, but the pit bull you want on your side. I’m not his boss -- I’m too -- Ha, yeah, I’m too old for that shit, but I’ve seen him on projects. You tell him to hunt, he hunts. He gives you a full write-up without so much as a damn typo. He’s good. You remember being good? You remember back that far?” A beat. Two beats. “That’s the kind of good he is. You do what you want, but that’s what I’ve got to say about him.”

Alexander’s toes curl. He hopes George doesn’t notice. The conversation continues. “Have you made him an offer? Formal?” A pause and then a short laugh. “You sneaky bastard. You can’t just go in there and kidnap him. If it were that easy, I would’ve done it. Little duct tape and -- Yeah. Ha.” A drawn in breath. Alex hears the rasp of George’s palm rubbing over the stubble on his head. “I’ll let you get back to it, brother. Don’t -- Sure. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Ha. B --” A short exhale, hissed. “Okay.” To the room: “Do we just not say goodbye anymore? Is that it? Lord.”

The phone gets set down, a little thump. Alex uncurls his toes, but behind his arm his eyes are stinging. What the fuck was that? Too much, a gut-punch of praise. George never talks about him like that. No one does. George tells him to shut up, tells him what a tight bitch ass he has, calls him son and boy kindly and unkindly, calls him a mistake he can’t stop making. Yeah, he’s seen Alex work, seen him ferret out discrepancies and take them in his teeth until they’re fixed, but he’s only ever used it as a chance to talk shit about Alex’s youth, inexperience, and politics. Once called him Bambi in front of the Deputy Secretary of DHS.

(There’s a shush against the carpet as George makes his way back to the bed.)

Fucking macho posturing. Sentimental old son of a bitch. Is this how they did it back in his day? Backroom deals where a powerful old man buys rungs on the ladder for whatever young thing is keeping his dick warm?

(A rustle of cloth. George buttoning his shirtsleeves.)

It would've been easier if George had put it that way. Palmer, whoever you are, I know you hate him, I hate him, everyone important hates him, but hire this obnoxious new-money immigrant. Why? Why? I just finished notarizing his asshole, that's why. 

George sits on the edge of the bed and rests a hand on Alex's belly. It’s affectionate. It makes Alex’s lip curl. He rolls away onto his side, drawing both arms down to his chest protectively. George says, “Shit.”

“I don’t suck dick for jobs.” 

Alex hears George pull his own hand back. “I never said you did,” George says, quiet, abashed. “It’s a good position. You’ll thrive there.”

“I like where I am.”

“This is better.”

“I don’t want it.” And again, his throat tight: “I don’t fuck you because I expect things.”

“I wanted to do this for you.”

“Don’t.”

Alex stays resolute on his side. His nostrils flare and divert the tear wending down his nose. Words are building up in his mouth, burning on his tongue as he tries to whittle them into one acid comment. For once, he eats them, he swallows them down. To himself he says again, “Don’t.”

George says, “Fine.”

The bed lightens up. Heavy steps as George crosses to the desk again and picks his jacket up off the back of the chair. “You’ve got the room for the rest of the night,” he points out. “That’s not so bad, is it.” Alex stays silent, cheeks burning.

The click of the door closing makes Alex say, “Ugh.” He rubs his face against the pillow and calls himself stupid. In the pocket of his pants, discarded by the coffee table, his phone pipes up with a jingle. An email coming through.


End file.
